


The One Where Everybody's Scared, Part 1

by LaVieEnRose



Series: The One Where Justin Loses His Hearing [22]
Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Angst, Burns, Deaf Character, Epilepsy, Hospitalization, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Outsider, Seizures, Sick Character, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2019-06-16 15:10:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15439809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaVieEnRose/pseuds/LaVieEnRose
Summary: “I am always present for him. I fall apartafter. And he is gonna be a fucking mess for God knows how long, he doesn't need to be fucking waiting around for the other shoe to drop. I am dropping all the shoes right the fuck now!” Brian paused. “But how, though.”





	The One Where Everybody's Scared, Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Part one of...four? I think?

“So when we're looking at children's literature through a queer lens, what are we really doing?” I asked, writing Arnold Lobel's name on the board. “What are we saying about the acceptability of queer relationships versus non-queer ones, and about the public's perception of the inherent sexuality of queer love versus non-queer love?”

Annabel raised her hand in the second row.

“Annabel, yes.”

“There's someone at the door,” she said.

I turned to the door, and there was Michael, watching me through the glass. If the fact that he were interrupting a class weren't enough to let me know something was wrong, the look on his face would certainly have done it.

“Hunter?” I mouthed, and Michael shook his head, and I felt the barest ounce of relief.

I cleared my throat and turned to the class. “Can you excuse me just a moment? I want you to write down answers to that question I just asked, all right? I'm expecting thoughts prepared when I get back. Preferably something using the phrase 'family values.'”

I opened the door and immediately Michael was in my arms. “Michael,” I said. “Who is it, what's wrong? Is it your mother?”

He shook its head. “Brian called me,” he said.

“Fuck, what happened?”

“He...we have to go to New York, I want you to come, will you come?”

I cupped his face. “Michael, of course. What's wrong with Brian?”

“It's Justin.” Michael wiped his nose on his hand. “Brian was...this isn't like last time, he's really scared, h-he sounded just like...”

“What's wrong with Justin?”

“He's in the hospital, he had a seizure.”

I nodded.

Michael took a shaky breath. “He was boiling water.”

**

There wasn't a lot to know at that point. Brian hadn't been exactly coherent on the phone, Michael said, which I believed, as difficult as it was to imagine.

Michael texted Brian a few times on our way to the airport and as we were going through security, but when he didn't get answer he called from the terminal. “Hey,” he said. “I just wanted to check...okay, well, do they know how much...yeah, of course. Um, we're at the gate now, we're just waiting to board. Yeah, of course. Do you need me to call anyone before...”

I rubbed his back.

“Okay. Listen, hang in there, okay? We'll be there in an hour and a half. He's gonna be fine, okay? I love you...yeah. Okay.” Michael hung up and breathed out. “Jesus,” he said to me. “Of all the moments I didn't want to relive, standing in the airport talking to Brian in a hospital...”

I squeezed his shoulder. “Yeah, I bet.”

I still remember when I found out about what happened to Justin at his prom. What was really strange was that I had heard about it, when it happened, in sort of a vague way; I'd seen news reports, heard about the trial verdict, but all of that was before I'd met him, or Michael, and I never internalized the victim's name or pictures, and when I did meet Justin I didn't learn his last name or think of him as more than _Michael's best friend's boyfriend_ for some time. Then one day, I was at the diner with Michael and he had to run out when he got a call that a delivery showed up at the store an hour earlier than expected, and Justin and I struck up a conversation when he came over to refill my coffee and he asked about the book I was reading. Turns out, the kid was smart as a whip, the sort of college student I would have killed to have in one of my classes, and when he went on his break we ended up talking for a while about metatextual elements and the death of the author.

That night, I mentioned to Michael that we'd talked. “That makes sense,” Michael said. “Justin's sweet, but he's definitely kind of a show-off. I guess you'd have to be to put up with Brian.”

“How long have they been together?” I'd asked, mincing some garlic.

“Uh, I guess Justin started following him around the September before last. But he's only lived at the loft for a few months.”

“I gotta tell you, when you told me Brian had an eighteen-year-old boyfriend, I was...”

“Very, very confused?” Michael laughed. “Yeah, that doesn't really go away.”

“But Justin seems so mature for his age,” I said. “He's thoughtful. Seems more cautious than a lot of these kids in my classes who think they can just charge through life.”

“Yeah.” Michael's voice sounded different. “He didn't used to be like that.”

“Oh yeah? What changed?”

Michael stopped dicing chicken and turned around and looked at me. “It's so weird that you don't know,” he said. “I'm so used to everyone knowing. It was all anyone talked about for months.” He shook his head. “I guess I figured it was in your welcome packet.”

“Must have skipped that page,” I said.

“It's a whole chapter.” And then Michael told me. About his ex, and how he moved to Portland for awhile. And about how on the night he was originally supposed to leave, Brian called him from an ambulance.

“He said...God, I will never forget his voice,” Michael had told me. “He just said...'it's Justin. Something happened.' And that's all he would say. I kept pushing him and he kept taking these deep breaths like he was going to finally say it and then he'd just say, 'Something happened,” again. Like he physically couldn't say what it was. I found out from Justin's friend Daphne after I got there.” He shook his head. “I've never seen Brian like that before.”

Now we got up to board and I rubbed Michael's arm. “How'd he sound?”

“Not like when he called from Australia, that's for sure,” Michael said.

“How was that?”

“Like he was just...bored and annoyed, the way he usually acts when he's worried about Justin. He puts up a front most of the time.”

“Not this time?”

Michael shook his head a little.

“What's going on now?” I asked as we boarded.

“He said Justin's in surgery and he's just waiting. He said he never woke up after the seizure.”

If he had burns bad enough to need surgery, I imagined that was probably a good thing.

“Brian doesn't like when he doesn't wake up,” Michael said.

**

We found Brian in the waiting room of the surgical ICU, sitting by a window overlooking the city. His head was bowed and he had a bandage wound around one hand and the top of his other arm.

“Still in surgery,” he said when we got close to him and set down our suitcases, without looking up.

Michael said, “Well, how much longer do they think it's going to be?”

“I don't know.”

“When's the last time you were updated?”

“I don't know.”

“Well who's his—”

“I. Don't. Know,” Brian said.

“Okay, well I'm going to go talk to a nurse and find out what's going on.”

Brian pinched his nose and waved his arm towards the desk. “Knock yourself out.”

Michael charged towards the desk, energized by his mission, and I hesitantly sat down next to Brian. It occurred to me that, for all I knew about hospitals, I knew very little about sitting around waiting for news on somebody else. Brian wiped his hand over his mouth and looked everywhere but at me.

“Can I get you anything?” I said. “Coffee, or...”

He shook his head.

“I can call his mother, if—” but he shook his head at that too, so I didn't push it.

“I hate hospitals,” he murmured. “Justin,” he added, louder, like it was a fun fact he was sharing. “Justin hates hospitals. Of course, Justin has no idea he's even in a hospital right now. Justin's unconscious.”

I touched the bandage on his arm. “Burns?”

He nodded a little.

“You were there, then.”

I didn't expect an answer, but after a minute, Brian said, “I was two feet away from him.” He held out his hands, estimating the difference, adjusted it a little. “Two feet.” He breathed out. “Aaaand my back was turned. And then he poured a pot of boiling water on himself.”

“Having someone there to act fast probably saved his life,” I said.

“He told me he had a headache,” Brian said. “I said, you can lie down after dinner. He hadn't eaten since breakfast. And I didn't feel like cooking. Didn't feel like it.” He shook his head. “His clothes were fucking melting onto him.”

I took his hand and threaded my fingers through his. After a moment, he squeezed, hard.

Michael came back a while later and sat on Brian's other side. “So, um, he had a reaction to the anesthesia. He's okay, but they had to deal with that, so...so it's taking them a little longer than they expected.”

“'course he did,” Brian said softly.

“They're taking skin from his thighs to graft onto his stomach and chest,” Michael said. “It's called a mesh graft, so they have to—”

Brian held up his bandaged hand, the one I wasn't holding. “I can imagine.”

Michael nodded a little.

Brian turned his head and looked out the window. “It didn't get his face,” he said vaguely. “He'll like that.”

“They think he's gonna be okay,” Michael said.

“Yeah,” Brian said, like he didn't really hear him.

**

About twenty minutes later, Brian stood up out of nowhere, like a man bolting out of sleep, and said, “Why haven't they given us a fucking update?”

Michael said, “I don't think they have anything new to—”

“Then they could fucking tell us that!”

“Brian—”

“Don't,” he said. “Don't say anything to me.” He covered his mouth with his hand. “I don't even know which way the OR is.”

Michael clearly didn't know whether or not to say anything. “Does...does that matter?”

“I'm supposed to face him,” Brian said. “He can't hear so I'm supposed to...” his voice cracked. “Fuck.”

“It's that way,” I said. “See the sign? Down that hall.”

Brian turned and read the sign for a very long time. “He's that way,” he said.

“He's that way.”

“He doesn't know what's going on,” Brian said, and he turned to us finally, his eyes wet, desperate. “As far as he knows he's still fucking boiling pasta and everything's fine, he hasn't been awake since then. He still thinks everything's okay.”

“That's good, isn't it?” Michael said.

“No, it's not good, what the _fuck?_ Everything's _not_ okay. He has fucking partial thickness burns on thirty percent of his body and he doesn't even fucking _know it!_ Fuck!” He paced back and forth. “This is just fucking like it, Mikey.”

“No it's not,” Michael said, firmly. “He's going to be fine. We know he's going to be fine this time.”

“He could get an infection, he could have another fucking reaction, he...I need to take him home, it's not safe for him here.”

“Brian,” Michael said.

“He doesn't know what's going on!” Brian yelled, and I think everyone in the waiting room was staring at him at that point. “I'm supposed to tell him what's going on and he's supposed to fucking _stay where I can see him,_ that's the fucking deal! He said, he said he would be okay, he promised me on that fucking night outside of Babylon, he promised me—”

Michael got up and took his arm and brought him back to the chairs. Brian curled up with his forearms pressed against his face.

“I was right there,” he said. “I was right fucking there, if I had just moved him away from the stove...why the fuck hasn't someone sedated me yet?”

**

Justin's friend Daphne showed up, along with two other kids who looked about her age. Brian immediately hugged Daphne, his fingers digging into her back, and I couldn't miss the look of pain on Michael's face that she was the one who got that sort of greeting from him. They all started signing to each other quickly, much too fast for me to keep up, but I still pulled Michael away to give them some privacy.

Michael paced and crossed his arms. “He's telling them everything. He's...he's known them for what, six months? I mean not Daphne, but...”

“They're Justin's friends,” he said. “It probably feels right to sign when he's talking about him, and..it is probably a relief for him to talk to people who love Justin.”

“We love Justin,” Michael said. “I love Justin.”

“Of course we do. Come here.” I put my arms around him and felt him shaking against me. “I know you do,” I said. “I know.”

Michael took a ragged breath.

“But you're still here for Brian,” I said. “They're here for Justin. So's he.”

Michael nodded a little.

“Just give him a little while with them.”

“Okay.”

Daphne came over to us after a while. “He told us to go home and get some sleep,” she said. “Said he'd text us when they were out of surgery. He's probably going to forget, can one of you do it?”

“I'm on it,” I said.

She gave my hand a squeeze, then Michael's. “Take care of Brian, okay?” she said, softly. “We kinda need him around.”

**

A doctor came and sat in front of us a little after one AM. Brian lifted his head.

He shook his head and introduced himself as Dr. Karamov, a plastic surgeon. “Justin's in recovery now,” he said. “We're getting him set up to move to the Burn Intensive Care Unit, and that's where he's going to be for the next few days. He's stable after the allergic reaction he had during surgery, and the grafts seemed to take well. We have to wait and see.”

Brian rubbed his mouth. “I need to see him.”

The doctor nodded a little, but then he said, “The BICU has very strict visiting hours because the patients are kept on a schedule and the rooms get very crowded. Visitors aren't allowed overnight.”

“He's his husband,” Michael said.

“Not even family,” the doctor said.

I asked so Brian didn't have to. “This wouldn't be any different if they were a straight couple?”

“No,” the doctor said. “It's a universal rule.”

“You need to make an exception,” Brian said, his voice soft.

Michael said, “Brian—”

“No,” Brian said, still calm, focused on the doctor. “He's Deaf, an exception needs to made here. He's going to wake up drugged, in pain, and confused, with nobody around who speaks his language to explain to him what's going on. This is not me being some overprotective partner or not understanding the policy, I get it, but this is an accessibility issue. Someone who knows sign language needs to be with him. And unless the hospital wants to pay an interpreter to sit by his bed the entire night, I think it makes sense that it's me.”

We looked at the doctor.

“We have him heavily sedated right now to avoid the risk of another seizure upsetting the grafts,” he said. “Justin isn't going to wake up tonight.”

Brian's eyes hardened. “When.”

“If he does well through the night, we'll lower the sedation in the morning. You can be with him when he wakes up. Go home. Get some rest. He's going to need you a lot more tomorrow than he does tonight.”

Brian clenched his jaw so hard a muscle jumped in his cheek, but finally he said, “I'm going to see him before I leave.”

The doctor hesitated, then nodded. “All right. We'll let you know when he's in a room.”

“Thank you.”

There was barely space for all three of us plus the doctor to stand in Justin's room. The hospital gown hid most of the bandages on his torso, but we could see one wrapped around his upper arm, where the burn wasn't severe enough to need a graft. There were countless monitors and pieces of equipment hooked up to him, and he still had a tube down his throat to help him breathe while he was sedated. Brian, somehow, completely ignored all of this and zoomed in on a pair of tiny hives next to Justin's mouth. You would have thought they were the only thing wrong with Justin, the way he fixated on them. He didn't touch Justin at all, just prowled around the bed the best he could in the tiny space.

“Were those there in surgery?” he asked the doctor. “Those are from that reaction, those aren't new?”

The doctor nodded. “Those are old.”

“And you gave him epinephrine. During the surgery.”

“Yes.”

“Can I see his chart?”

“The patient has to give permission for that,” the doctor said, and I expected Brian to fly off the handle at that, but he actually accepted that right away.

“Okay. Okay, yeah. That makes sense.” He raked his hand through his hair. “Maybe tomorrow then. He's going to wake up tomorrow?”

“If he does well tonight.”

“Right. Yeah.”

The doctor put his hand on Brian's arm, and Brian flinched but didn't pull away. “We have your number. We'll call if there's anything you need to know.”

Michael said, “Brian, do you want a minute alone with him?”

Brian shook his head. “No, no.” He turned abruptly away from the bed. “We can go now. It's fine. I want to go now.”

I said, “If you want to talk to him a little—”

“No.”

“They say patients can—”

Brian said, “What, hear you? You were going to say he could hear me, weren't you?”

Well. Really no way to come back from that.

Brian coughed out a laugh and covered his eyes. “You people are fucking pathetic,” he said.

Michael said, “Brian, it's time to go home.”

Brian lowered his hands. “Okay.”

**

The pot was still on the kitchen floor. Brian stared at it when we walked in. “Least I turned the fucking stove off,” he muttered, going into the living room and kicking off his shoes.

“This is a nice place,” I said.

“Yep.” He lit a cigarette. “Justin doesn't want us smoking in it.”

“You should go to bed,” Michael said. “At least lie down and rest, even if you can't sleep.”

Brian lay on his back on the couch and blew a smoke ring at the ceiling.

I said, “Brian, do you want a drink?”

“Yeah.”

Michael followed me into the kitchen. “You really think that's what he needs right now?” he hissed at me.

“We can't give him what he needs right now,” I said. “I just know if something happened to you, I'd need a drink before I could get into our bed alone.”

Michael picked the pot off the floor. “Christ. Did you see how many fucking machines—”

“I know.”

“If he wakes up tonight,” Brian announced from the living room. “I'm suing this hospital.”

I came out and handed him a glass of scotch, Michael at my heels. “He's not going to wake up tonight.”

“Fucking better not.” He drained the glass and snorted. “Three days we fucking waited to hear if he was going to wake up, you remember that, Mikey? Fucking praying that he would wake up. And now look at us. Fucker better stay asleep until I get there. Can barely fucking wake him up on time for work so he's just gotta channel some of that bullshit or whatever the fuck they say, right, Professor?”

“Sure,” I said.

Brian held out his glass for a refill, and I obliged. Michael said, “Brian, he's going to be fine.”

“He's gonna have scars,” Brian said.

Michael shrugged. “Scars are sexy.”

“Scars _are_ sexy. That's very wise, Mikey.” He drank, and Michael sat down next to him on the couch.

“I read online that most people are only in the hospital for like nine or ten days after skin grafts,” Michael said. “That's not that long.”

I said, “Do you need us to call Justin's work in the morning?”

Brian shook his head. “Derek, that kid who came to the hospital, he's the boss's son. She'll probably be sending over fucking...flower arrangements. And Kinnetik will fucking...deal. Cynthia's covered my ass before.” He took a pull on his cigarette and drained his glass. “What I am trying to do,” he said suddenly, “is get all the bullshit out of me.” He looked at us, some kind of desperation in his eyes. “See, what I always do is, I push it down and push it down and then later he has to deal with it. Well, that's crap. He needs to rest. So I' not pushing it down, see? It's right the fuck here and you assholes can deal with it.” He slumped back on the couch.

Michael and I looked at each other and shrugged. “Works for me,” I said.

“Daphne told us to take care of you,” Michael said.

“Daphne's an angel.” He stood up and started taking off his clothes. “You know what's amazing?” he said lightly, handing me the butt of his cigarette. “Being comfortable around someone. Just fucking...being yourself around another human being. Fascinating fucking stuff, huh?” He waved his hand towards Michael. “See, you and I, all these fucking years, we never had that.”

Michael stared at him. “Okay, you're going through something right now, so I'm not going to—”

Brian snorted. “Going through something right now. Didn't I say I was doing all my shit right now? You think there's space in there for euphemisms? Going through something right now. I fucking smelled my partner's flesh cooking on my goddamn kitchen floor, yeah, I'm going through something right now.” He pulled his shirt over his head. “If that fucker wakes up alone I'm going to kill him myself. Shouldn't be hard.” He hopped on one foot, pulling his pants off. “Thinking he can die from some fucking anasthesia, like I would not go down to hell like fucking, who was it, Ben, Hercules?”

“Hercules,” I said.

“Hercules that fucker down into hell and drag him back up again. And you know the fucking punch line? He didn't want to wear the rings because I was going to die first!” He laughed. “In what fucking universe! Because I'm older? At least I'm not trying to fucking bail every ten seconds! See, that's what it is. He walks out of fights, he walks out of life. It's the same goddamn thing, it's just cosmic instead of...you know, instead of walking out the front door.”

Michael said, “Brian, what?”

“Just let him,” I said.

Brian pointed at me. “Just let him. See, that's some good advice. I bet you two are all fucking comfortable with each other.” He went into the kitchen and came back out with the bottle of scotch, then collapsed into the chair holding it against his chest, looking faraway. “You know what it's like to just have a fucking conversation?” he said, with this voice like he was genuinely asking.

I sat on the couch. “Yeah, I do.”

He nodded and sipped from the bottle. “It's nice, right?” he said lightly.

“It is.”

“Doesn't even matter that it's not in English, really,” Brian said. “Sometimes it's easier that way. God, he's not going to be able to have sex for ages. He's going to be so fucking goddamn cranky.” Brian laughed and looked up at the ceiling. “God, he is such a little bitch.”

Michael shook his head in disbelief.

“I'm offending your husband,” Brian said to me, taking another swallow. “He wants me to be nicer to Justin. Everyone does. Even when he didn't like Justin he wanted me to be nicer to him! Work that one out. I've stopped trying. You know what, Michael? Last time he had a seizure like that it was because he had a fever, remember? You remember, you came.”

“Of course I remember.”

“Oh, this is your first time in the apartment, isn't it?” Brian said to me. “Well.” He spread his arms out. “Welcome.”

“Thank you.”

“Anyway.” He drank from the bottle again. “Last time he had a fever. So what the fuck about this time? He wasn't sick. He had a headache. I have to worry every time he has a headache now? Can't let him around stoves, leave him anywhere up too high? We live in a fucking penthouse! He's working on a fucking...this very tall canvas.”

“Ah, shit,” Michael said, pulling out his phone. “I forgot to text his friends.”

Brian laughed.

“You might need some help when he gets out of the hospital,” I said. “Some nurses for home care. Michael and I have some experience with that, we can help set it up.”

Brian shrugged. “Okay.” He shifted in his chair. “How does one have feelings?” he said. “How am I supposed to...to get all that bullshit out. Do I have to cry? I cried already.”

“I think it's just about being present for him,” I said.

He groaned. “I am always present for him. I fall apart _after_. And he is gonna be a fucking mess for God knows how long, he doesn't need to be fucking waiting around for the other shoe to drop. I am dropping all the shoes right the fuck now!” He paused. “But how, though.”

“Write him a letter,” Michael said, without looking up from his phone.

I looked at him.

He shrugged. “It's what I do when you're sick. I write a letter with all the shit that wouldn't be fair to say to you and then I flush it down the toilet. It's therapeutic, or whatever.”

“Get a pen!” Brian declared. “I will dictate.”

Michael went to hunt around in the kitchen drawers while Brian drank. “Dear Justin!” Brian said.

“You never call him Justin,” Michael said.

“So what? He's not gonna read it. Dear Justin!”

“Hang on, I'm still looking for—”

“So here we fucking are again,” Brian said. “Here we are, you are putting me through this shit for the millionth time.”

“Okay, got one,” Michael said, and he started writing.

“And in the interest of being a more developed person, I am telling a letter that's going to go in the toilet how immensely fucked up I am about it. And don't tell me to go to therapy about it, you little shit. What the fuck are they gonna do? Point out that I have feelings. Well congratulations. It's not like I've been fooling anyone for fucking years. Hey Michael, did anyone think I was really okay after he had been bashed? No.”

Michael paused. “Uh, does that go in the letter, or...”

“So I am doing the drunk and raging thing immediately this time,” Brian said. “In hopes of fucking...growth. And then tomorrow I'm going to go to the hospital and I'm going to deal with this shit. And we're going to be fine. You are going to be fine, you little shit.”

Michael nodded and wrote.

“And here is the part where I'm supposed to say I regret ever fucking meeting you and getting dragged through this shit. 'Cause that's how I felt the first time we did this, I thought, goddamn, if I had just walked out of Babylon a minute later, if I had just kicked that kid out of the loft, something, I wouldn't have to do any of this shit, wouldn't have to do any of these fucking feelings. Ben and Michael, they want me to say that, they want me to get all those bad bad mean thoughts out of me. But you know what, Sunshine, you motherfucker?” He took a swig from the bottle. “I'm just worried. That's all it is. All the fucking...the fucking theatrics of it all, and really it's just that.”

It was quiet, just a siren in the distance and the scratch of Michael's pen on the paper.

“I don't regret a fucking thing,” Brian said. “And I'm not going to, so fucking get over it. I'll see you tomorrow, you overdramatic asshole. Love, Brian.” He shrugged. “How was that?”

“Mine are usually angrier,” Michael said.

Brian put the bottle on the coffee table and stood up. “Well. I'm not angry.” He pointed at Michael. “Flush it. If I find out you leave that out as some matchmaking shit or something—”

“All right, all right.”

“Goodnight,” he said, and then he went to his room and shut the door.

“Well,” Michael said.

I said. “I...guess we'll see how he is tomorrow.”

**

Brian was up, dressed, and drinking coffee at six AM, looking not a hair hungover. He'd taken care of the burns on his arm and hand, changed the bandages and everything.

“Visiting hours start at seven,” he said. “Come on.”

Michael and I exchanged looks, and Brian sighed.

“I told you,” he said. “I'm dealing with my shit. I went to bed last night and cried for an hour, okay? I promise. There is no denial aaaaanywhere around here.”

“The new and improved Brian Kinney,” Michael said dryly.

Brian shrugged one shoulder. “Scars are sexy, right?”

**

“He did great last night,” the doctor told us.

Brian pulled the chair up close to the bed and kissed Justin's cheek. The tube was out, replaced by a mask over his nose and mouth, but everything else looked the same as the night before.

“We're going to go ahead and lower his sedation,” he said. “He's still on heavy levels of anti-seizure meds, which, Brian, as I'm sure you're aware—”

Brian nodded.

“So between that and the painkillers and the remains of the sedation...”

“He's gonna be really out of it,” Brian said. “I know.”

“Expect him to wake up gradually,” he said. “And it's likely he's not going to retain a lot of what we tell him today. Tomorrow he should be a lot more aware, assuming he doesn't have any seizures today. He has a PCA pump for his pain, the button for that is here.”

“PCA?” Michael asked.

“Patient-controlled analgesia,” I said softly.

The doctor nodded. “It's so Justin can control his own morphine dosage. The machine's locked at a certain level, so it's perfectly safe. And it lets him be in control of what he needs.”

“When do you think he'll wake up?” Michael asked.

“Any time in the next few hours.” The doctor smiled a little. “We're on Justin's time now.”

As soon as he left the room, Brian took the button for the PCA pump and said, “Yeah, I don't see any reason to fuck around on this one,” and hit it until it was maxed out.“Enjoy it, Sonny Boy.”

There wasn't room for all three of us to sit around Justin's bed, so Michael and I took seats near the door, by the foot of the bed, and Brian stayed where he was by his head. He was calm at first, but as time went on, he started getting more and more antsy, twitching his foot on his knee, looking at his watch, looking at the clock on the wall like it was going to say something different from his watch. Michael got a stack of magazines from the waiting room and he and I worked through them, but Brian just sat there. Finally, suddenly, he stood up. “He's waking up.”

Justin looked the same to me. Michael and I exchanged a look.

“Brian...” Michael said.

“No, no, hang on.” Brian scooted the chair closer to the bed and sat on his knees, leaning over Justin.

A minute later, Justin's eyelashes fluttered, and Brian smiled and tapped gently on his collarbone.

 **Good morning,** Brian signed.

Justin's eyes were barely open. **What's up?** he signed, one handed.

**Not much. You?**

**Nothing.** Justin closed his eyes, and Brian laughed softly and kissed his hair.

“Okay,” he said. “Good talk.” He looked over at us and smiled.

**

The next time Justin woke up, he started to sign something that would have touched one of the bandages on his torso, and Brian was there in a second stopping his hands. Justin noticed the bandage around Brian's palm, then, and he touched it and looked up at Brian.

Brian brushed his hair back. **You've got to be kidding me,** he said.

Justin touched the bandage, then the one on Brian's arm, still watching him.

Brian laughed gently. **Sunshine, I'm fine.**

Justin's eyes started to close again.

 **That's right,** Brian said. **Rest up. Was nice to see you.**

“You too,” Justin murmured on his way out.

**

The next time he woke up was with a gasp and a high-pitched noise of pain in the back of his throat.

 **Hey, it's okay,** Brian said. He put the button in Justin's hand and helped him press down. **Did you have a bad dream?**

Justin shook his head, looking confused, and for the first time he seemed to take in the room, the gown, the machines.

Brian squeezed his hand. **It hurts, huh?**

Justin nodded.

**What's the last thing you remember?**

**Thursday,** Justin said.

Brian smiled gently. **Today's Thursday.**

Justin seemed very, very confused by that.

 **It's okay,** Brian said. **How's the mask, breathing okay?**

**Yeah.**

Brian touched his cheek. **You're so scared.**

I got up and came towards the bed. **Hey, Justin,** I said.

Justin looked at Brian, then at me.

I said, “Brian, can you—”

 **Sure,** Brian said.

I said, “The doctors told us you were going to be confused,” and Brian signed. “So you're doing exactly what they're expecting. Nobody's worried about it. You're doing exactly what you're supposed to be doing.”

Justin relaxed a little, and Brian looked at me after he fell back asleep.

I shrugged a little. “Sometimes you just need permission to lie there and feel like crap. It's nice to hear that it's what you're supposed to be doing.”

Brian kissed his forehead, then glanced at me and Michael.

“I'm glad you're here,” he said, and I saw Michael exhale.

“I think he's gonna be okay now,” Brian said. “I think he's going to be fine this time.”


End file.
